


crown of thorns

by sinequanon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Curses, M/M, Witch Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 19:28:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11881236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinequanon/pseuds/sinequanon
Summary: Stiles has championed supernatural rights for decades, only to discover that his home is not as welcoming as it once was. Or, curses are bad, and killing lots of witches is never a good idea.





	crown of thorns

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a favorite story of mine, mostly because I feel like this story could have been much longer if I'd had the time to deal with it. I tagged Stiles as a witch, but it's not explored as much as I would like, and it is extremely unlikely that I will ever expand this.
> 
> (But if you want to try, feel free.)
> 
> With that warning, have fun!

Entropy was inevitable. Everything broke down eventually; some things forever, others to be born again.

Stiles just hadn't imagined that the end of his world would come at the hands of the Hales.

Almost his entire life had been spent fighting for the rights of supernaturals, including those from his hometown. From the time the first restrictive laws were passed in Arizona when he was ten to almost two decades later, he had spent thousands of hours working to get them repealed. After high school, there were years when Stiles had lived mostly out of motel rooms, eaten horrible food, and hardly ever saw his father. He had been shot at, spit on, poisoned, stabbed, and arrested in the name of equal rights. He had foolishly believed that when the laws were finally repealed, he would get to go home and enjoy the fruits of his labor.

(One of his favorite dreams was of he and Peter, hiding away from the rest of the world while they focused solely on each other.)

Here he was, though, standing alone in the Hales’ front yard, listening to the accusations against him coming from people that he loved and trusted. He listened in growing disbelief as they insulted his humanity, his intelligence, and his loyalty.

Theo had done a such masterful job of turning the wolves against him that even Peter doubted his innocence.

“I know that you're human, Stiles, but that's no excuse for what you’ve done,” Talia said, her red eyes furious. “The only reason I'm not going to kill you now is because of my friendship with your mother, but please, don't ever come back here.”

Stiles caught sight of Theo standing next to a pale Cora, a smug smile on his face. “Crawl back to your witches, Stiles,” he taunted, “although I doubt that they like traitors, either.”

Despite the situation, Stiles rolled his eyes. Theo didn't understand magic at all, and eventually, it would cost him. Stiles just hoped that too many people didn't have to die in the meantime. He’d warn the local coven, though, just in case.

“Times are changing, Alpha Hale,” Stiles said formally, face blank, “I hope you don't let those changes drag you under.”

The Hales took the advice as a threat, if the low gasps and growls were any indication, but Stiles didn't bother to turn around to check.

<> <>

Stiles's father had never been especially powerful as a witch, but what he lacked in ability he made up for in smarts. He had been the one to remind Stiles that, even after the laws were repealed, things would only get harder.

Some states complied with the new ruling quickly, while others blatantly disregarded it for as long as they could. Changing the laws didn't automatically change people's opinions, and the tide of resentment from much of the supernatural community was almost a tangible thing.

Over the years, Beacon Hills turned into what was essentially two separate towns: one, governed primarily by the Coven and dedicated to cooperation among species; and the second, governed by the Hales, who had come to believe that revolution was the only true way to bring about change.

The Coven said that the wolves were being too bloodthirsty. The Hales said that the Coven was full of weak-minded humans who had no say in their world.

(Stiles had watched it all unfold, knowing that it was only a matter of time before he, too, was pushed away from his friends, though the knowledge made the heartbreak no less painful when it finally happened.)

<> <>

The revolution, when it came, was short and bloody. Moderate voices around the world were drowned out by louder voices screaming for vengeance. Witches, mages, and shamans were all slaughtered along with thousands of humans who stood in the way of other supernaturals’ so-called freedom.

In Beacon Hills, the two sides maintained a fragile peace until the much beloved Sheriff Stilinski was found mauled to death by an unknown assailant.

No one openly accused the Hale pack of murder, but everyone remembered what had happened to Stiles. People that had heartily supported the pack before now looked at them with caution. Only Deputy Parrish’s steadiness kept violence from erupting; but no one forgot that this was the second Stilinski that had been betrayed by the Hale pack.

The Sheriff's body was shipped elsewhere, buried outside of Beacon Hills, and Stiles never came home.

A long-term investigation proved that Theo Raeken, charismatic and popular member of the Hale pack, was responsible for the murder, as well as various attacks against civil rights supporters throughout the southwestern United States.

It was only during the trial that the full scope of Theo’s manipulations of Beacon Hills came to light, and the pack finally realized just how far they had fallen. Thankfully, most people were willing to put the past aside and start moving forward, and the town slowly healed; but the ghosts of the past ever lingered in the background.

<> <>

As it turned out, eradicating the magical arm of the supernatural community was a very bad idea. No one knew where the sickness had come from--whether chemical or magical--and supernaturals fell almost as quickly as the humans had during the revolution a few years earlier.

At this point, emissaries were the only magic users readily available to supernaturals, and they could do nothing to stop the coming pandemic. Everyone knew that other magic users still existed, but Peter sincerely doubted that any of them would come to his pack’s aid, regardless of the strides they had been making in reconnecting with the humans in their area.

They had burned those bridges all too well.

Luckily, no one from the pack had died yet, but five members were sick, including Talia, and the handful of coven members that still lived in the area were not strong enough to help. Beatrice, the eldest witch in the county, had offered her assistance, but Talia had insisted that Deaton be the one to tend to them.

The sympathy in Beatrice’s eyes when she looked at Peter told him everything he needed to know about the severity of the situation, even in the face of his sister's willful ignorance.

(Peter wanted to ask Beatrice if she was in contact with Stiles, but he was afraid of what he’d do if she said yes.)

<> <>

Eventually, one of Peter's second cousins succumbed to the sickness, and Talia was forced to admit that they needed outside help. Deaton worked with the coven to locate a man who had been traveling around the country helping the sick. No one knew his name, but the places he visited all said that he appeared and disappeared like smoke, he had no smell, and that looking into his eyes felt a lot like drowning. Some people said that the man was Death himself, or Pestilence come to release his wrath after all of the suffering of the past decades.

Even so, most of the sick recovered under his ministrations, and that was what truly mattered.

Offerings were made, and voices whispered that the man was heading toward California. Before Deaton had a chance to give Talia the good news, the man himself was in Beacon Hills.

<> <>

Physically, the man was not imposing. His face was well-hidden by his cloak, but he seemed average: average height, average weight, average build. There was something about him, though, that made the hair on the back of Peter's neck stand up. The man in the cloak _felt_ gigantic, like he was using up all of the oxygen around him and choking out the rest of them.

He barely glanced at Peter before stepping into the house as if he had always lived there, moving through the rooms until he found the sick wolves. He looked them over silently, ignoring the pack’s questions, Peter trailing after him like a moth to a flame.

“Everything needs to be cleaned: sheets, pillows, blankets. Someone dear to each of the victims needs to wash them and dress them in clean clothes.” The man reached into his satchel and pulled out a jar of something that smelled of rain and oranges. “Place two drops of this on each pillow, and then have each of the washers bathe themselves as well. I'll return at dusk,” he announced, placing a comforting hand on Peter's shoulder, and the wolf found himself all but melting into the touch before the other man turned and walked away without another word.

<> <>

“From this moment, only people who have been cleansed may be present,” the man said, barring the door from Derek's pack, who had come to support Erica. Derek snarled again, only to be shoved by an invisible force back into the rest of his betas, toppling the lot of them in the hallway. Before the group could recover, the door was shut and locked, and no amount of force could budge it.

Ignoring the noise, Stiles turned back to the rest of the room and, after a moment, removed his cloak.

“ _Stiles_?”

Peter didn't even care about the whine that worked its way out of his throat in that one word.

“The problem with curses,” he said, rolling up his sleeves to reveal thick, dark tattoos all over his arms, “is that it doesn't require skill to cast them, so anyone with strong enough emotions can manage it.” He began pulling out various jars and salves, organizing them in a way understood only to him. “Breaking a curse is much trickier.”

He turned back to the others and gave a rueful smile. “If she were awake,” he nodded at Talia, “she’d probably accuse me of cursing you.”

“It wasn't you?” Lydia asked, but her voice was curious, not judgmental, so Stiles didn't take offense.

Stiles shrugged, though he didn't bother to stop his preparations. “Like I said, anyone who felt wronged could have done this, and that's a lot of people these days. If you want my professional opinion, the original curse was an accident. Like a poltergeist. Great pain, unfinished business, and so forth. Then some asshole figured out how it worked, and before we know it we have an epidemic on our hands.”

“Can you save them?” Boyd asked. When Stiles nodded, Cora followed it up with, “Do you _want_ to save them?”

“It doesn't matter,” he answered bluntly, “because I'm going to do it anyway.” He moved toward Cora and Laura, the others watching avidly. “Cora, I'm going to pull the curse off of Laura, and it's going to be very painful for the both of us.” He drew three circles around the bed: one in mountain ash, the other two in substances Cora didn't recognize. Then, he chose another jar and started drawing symbols on Laura that mirrored the ones on his arms. “Your job is to make sure that neither of us leave the circles. Okay? Do not break the circles.”

After a nod from Cora, Stiles settled next to Laura, placed his hands over the symbols on Laura's forearms, and closed his eyes. The symbols started glowing almost immediately, but just as the silence started to get uncomfortable, the screaming started.

Stiles and Laura both started shaking like they were attached to a live wire, and it took every ounce of strength that Cora had to keep Stiles from accidentally breaking the circle.

The symbols glowed brighter, and the screaming grew louder. Peter and the others could hear the rest of the pack banging on the doors, but they ignored it in favor of whispering encouragements to Cora, Laura, and Stiles. They watched in morbid fascination as the symbols on Laura faded out--and with it, the screams and seizing--until the only sound left was Stiles's heavy breathing.

“Well, if I would have known that I had to practically die to get you back here, I would've done it sooner.” Laura's eyes were barely open, but her lips were quirked into a smile. “Thanks.”

Stiles chose that moment to lurch heavily to his feet, stagger the few steps to the bathroom, and spend the next five minutes vomiting black goo into the toilet.

“Are you sure you can do that again?” Lydia asked as soon as he stumbled back into the room. “You already look half dead.” Thankfully, Lydia had broken the barriers around Cora and Laura and had been paying enough attention to replicate everything for her and Jackson.

“I'm hoping that Erica and Jackson won't be so bad.”

“What if they are?” Peter asked, deceptively mild.

“Well, then you're going to have a dead Stiles on your hands,” Stiles replied flatly, ignoring the sucked-in breaths around him.

Cora guided him to Lydia and Jackson, but asked, “Is the healing usually this draining?”

Stiles shook his head before deciding that that was a terrible idea. “If I was doing this the traditional way, I'd be stuck here for nearly two weeks. I don't want to be here any longer than necessary,” he admitted, drawing the symbols on Jackson.

“I'm going with you when you leave,” Peter announced into the lingering silence.

“If this is how you take care of yourself, Jackson and I are coming as well,” Lydia added. “Otherwise, the two of you will get yourselves killed.”

Stiles stared at them.

“We can't leave yet,” Boyd said quietly, “but keep in touch, and we’ll catch up with you eventually.”

“What?” Stiles asked dumbly.

“Beatrice told us that heavy magic like this will connect us to you for the rest of our lives. It's in our best interest to look out for you,” Peter said simply, as if that reasoning made any sense whatsoever.

Pushing this newest twist of fate out of his mind, Stiles closed his eyes, reached out to Jackson, and let the magic take him again.

<> <>

The next day, after too much magic and too little sleep, Stiles was summoned to see Alpha Hale. No matter that he had almost killed himself healing her pack yesterday, he had to pull his aching body out of bed to see her. With any luck, he would throw up on her shoes.

Talia was waiting for him as regally as she could be while lying in bed, Peter waiting too silently beside her. Stiles side-eyed Peter, trying to ask him what was wrong, but neither Peter nor any of the other wolves in the room gave him any indication as to the nature of the problem. Erica was avidly staring at her nails, Laura was finding something out the window absolutely fascinating, and Jackson was pretending to be asleep.

“Stiles, your father--” Talia began.

“Is buried with his family,” Stiles said flatly. Peter helped shift the alpha forward so that Stiles could reach her without bending over, and Stiles nodded in thanks.

“Your father was a good man.” She searched the younger man's eyes before adding, “Your mother loved him very much.”

“A thank you is sufficient, Alpha Hale,” he said, chuckling darkly when she remained silent. “You know, I can forgive many things, even if you don't deserve it; but your ignorance and prejudice led to the death of my father. That, I will never forgive.”

He bent down to touch the alpha’s forehead, laughing lightly when the woman flinched. “So, I'm going to take Peter, and Lydia and Jackson, and anyone else who wants to come, and I'm going to leave you to your fate. This,” he gestured to her healing body, “was just one last gift for my mother.”

Three days later, that's exactly what he did.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from Sonnet LXXVIII by Pablo Neruda.
> 
> Next week: I'm going to be posting a month's worth of material, so that I can use September to take care of some things. I'll be posting a bit of everything, including Bleach stuff.
> 
> See you then, and thanks for reading!


End file.
